


Problems of Placation

by luxover



Series: Donovash [1]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-11
Updated: 2012-01-11
Packaged: 2017-10-29 08:34:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/317862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luxover/pseuds/luxover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Landon doesn't really know how he ended up here, on a soccer field with Steve Nash. Steve's loving it, really having a blast, but Landon could be having a better time. He could be on his couch at home watching The Hangover, or lip-synching to pop radio hits with Benny in his car. He could be napping.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Problems of Placation

**Author's Note:**

> Based on [these ](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AEb1iV3o4bc&feature=list_related&playnext=1&list=SP54770EA68493AA4E)FIFA 11 videos that Landon Donovan and Steve Nash did. It is highly, highly recommended that you watch them, as they are hilarious.

Landon doesn’t really know how he ended up here, on a soccer field with Steve Nash. Steve’s loving it, really having a blast, but Landon could be having a better time. He could be on his couch at home watching The Hangover, or lip-synching to pop radio hits with Benny in his car. He could be napping. This seems like the exact opposite of what Landon wants, really, and yet here he is, on a soccer field with Steve Nash.   
He’s kind of disappointed in himself, to be honest.

“Landon!” Steve yells. He’s across the pitch, waving one arm in the air. “Landon, send me a cross—I’ll head it in!”

Landon kicks the ball at his feet. He thinks that maybe if he humors Steve, if he gives Steve what he wants, that he’ll get bored and go away. Landon figures it’s a long shot, but nothing else has worked so far and he’s running out of both options and patience. He watches Steve jump for the ball and miss, and he’s not surprised. But the thing is, Landon gets it, he really does. He’s an athlete, likes to think he’s good at all things sports, but at the end of the day, Landon’s five foot eight and fucking sucks at basketball. Steve’s six foot three and thinks he’s Peter Crouch.

“Almost had it,” Steve yells to him. “I slipped on the—there’s mud over here!” He starts jogging over to where Landon’s standing, and halfway there he stops to do thirty seconds of in-place sprints and high knees. He’s wearing Landon’s jersey—not one that Landon owns, but an LA Galaxy number 10 Donovan shirt—only he’s placed masking tape over Landon’s last name and wrote in “Nash.”

“Nice jersey,” Landon says. He doesn’t mean it even a little bit.

“Yeah?” Steve asks. He’s showing Landon every tooth he has with his smile. “Thought you’d like that. I was surprised you didn’t notice it earlier.”

“I did,” Landon says.

“Yeah, Galaxy wants to sign me as their new forward,” Steve continues, and he shrugs like,  _No big deal_. 

Landon doesn’t say anything, just stares at Steve like he’s an idiot. He is.

“I’m just kidding, L.D.,” Steve says with a laugh, and he slaps Landon on the arm. “I’m a basketball player. I mean, I can do  _that_ —” he points to an adjacent field where some kid is out practicing and using fancy footwork to guide the ball past a defender and into the back of the net, “—but the Suns would be lost without me. Don’t bite the hand that feeds you, you know?” He laughs again. It’s giving Landon a headache.

“Yeah,” Landon says. “You best just stick with basketball.”

“Exactly,” Steve says. “Soccer’s just for fun, for when we hang. Hey Landon, cross it to me again, alright? I’m gonna bicycle kick it this time. Easy.” He passes the ball over and it bounces off Landon’s shins as he jogs away, back towards the posts.

Ah, well, Landon thinks. He tried.

 

They play for another hour or so—if what they did could even be considered _playing_ —and then Steve decides to pack it in, call it a day. Landon thanks his lucky stars because he doesn’t think he can deal with another ten minutes of him. He’s spent his entire day just watching the Steve Nash Show, and now he knows how many push-ups Steve can do in a row—forty-seven before grass gets up his nose and causes him to fall—and how many times he can bounce a soccer ball on his knee without it touching the ground—four, but that’s because he was standing on the foot that he hurt in his last game against the Lakers—and how many goals he can score when Landon crosses to him in the empty box—he averages about two in seven, although it’s muddy right in front of the goal and the studs on his cleats are worn down and so it’s really not his fault—and Landon is ready to kill someone.

“Well, it’s been fun,” he says.

“Hell yeah, it’s been fun,” Steve says. “And it’s gonna get even better—chips, beer, FIFA 11—just you and me, L.D.!”

 “Oh,” Landon says. “Actually, I should probably—the team has a meeting, and so—”

 “Hey, no big,” Steve interrupts. “I talked to Bruce, got you a free pass for the day. Time to prove your worth; put your money where your mouth is.”

“I don’t gamble,” Landon tells him.

“It’ll be fun,” Steve says, completely ignoring him, still smiling like an idiot.

Landon thinks this is bullshit. He didn’t sign up for this.

 

In the end, it doesn’t matter what Landon signs up for, because he ends up heading to Steve’s place, anyways.

“My place or yours?” Steve asks as they walk to their cars. “I just got a new big screen tv, so.”

“Yours,” Landon says, because at least then he can bail after an hour and call it a night. If he let Steve into his house, he’d never get rid of the guy. Landon just doesn’t want to deal with it.

“Good call,” Steve says, and then on second thought he adds, “You live in Manhattan Beach, anyways. I live in the Hills, so that’s closer.”

“The Hills?” Landon asks, and it’s something that he says more to himself than anyone else.  _The Hills_. So stupid.

“Beverly Hills,” Steve laughs. “L.D., you’re too much. One too many soccer balls to the head!” He laughs again.

“Yeah,” Landon says to shut him up. “Look, I’ll follow you alright?”

“Alright,” Steve says, “but I gotta say—you might have a hard time catching up to my Jag.” He clicks the unlock button on his keys and his car lights up, and then he looks to the car Landon’s standing in front of. “Is that a Honda?”

Landon doesn’t answer him; he just gets in the car.

The drive there is quiet; it’s quiet and nice and he can think and hear himself breathe, and Steve Nash isn’t there with him. He switches his radio from a hip-hop station to a greatest hits station that’s playing The Fray, and he thinks,  _This won’t be that bad; you’re going to play FIFA 11, you’re going to drink a beer, and then you’re going to leave. Not so bad._

He’s almost got himself convinced by the time he pulls up to Steve’s house.

“Landon!” Steve yells from the doorway. “Come on, Landon! Let’s go!”

Landon takes a deep breath before he begrudgingly gets out of his car and walks up the driveway. When he steps inside Steve’s house, he’s surprised at just how normal it seems; it’s massive and completely over-the-top, but there’s not a single framed jersey in sight, nothing to show that he is  _Steve Nash: Athlete and Egotist._

“Make yourself at home,” Steve says. “Mi casa es su casa. You want a beer?” He doesn’t wait for Landon’s response, just opens the refrigerator and grabs him one anyway.

Landon takes his shoes off at the door and then throws himself down on the couch and takes his phone out of his pocket; he doesn’t have any new text messages, although he wishes he did, just so he could make an excuse about one of them and leave. He places his phone down on the coffee table and puts it on vibrate, knowing that it will rattle and buzz and make all sorts of noise should someone decide they need him.

Someone better decide that they need him.

“Well, come on, L.D.,” Steve says when he walks back into the living room. He’s holding a bag of Doritos in one hand and has two beer bottles dangling between the fingers of his other. “Start it up.”

Landon looks at him like,  _Are you stupid? This isn’t my house; I don’t know where anything is_ , but instead he says, “FIFA 11?”

“Hell yeah,” Steve says. “I’ve got it on all the platforms—PlayStation 2, PlayStation 3, Xbox 360, Wii…” He trails off at the end and looks like he’s waiting for Landon to say something.

“Um, Xbox, I guess,” Landon says. He doesn’t care, but he’s most familiar with the Xbox.

“Xbox?” Steve says, and he laughs. “I’m judging you right now, L.D.! PlayStation 3 is the only way to go.”

He then proceeds to bend down and boot up the PS3. Landon thinks that’s a dick move, but he’s not going to argue it. Instead, he opens his beer; it’s a bottle of Dogfish Head 90 minute IPA and not bad, although he’d have been find with a Bud Light, to be honest. 

When he looks back up from the label on his beer, Steve is opening the game box. There’s a picture of Kaká in the middle—Landon already knows that—and Vela on the left, but on the right, where Landon should be, Steve has taped a picture of his own face. 

A part of Landon wants to bring it up, wants to say,  _Why not Kaká? Why not Vela?_  But he thinks that’s just opening a whole other can of worms that he doesn’t want to get into, and so he doesn’t mention it and doesn’t mention it and doesn’t mention it.

So they play, and at times it’s not that bad, although Steve insists on playing as Real Madrid every game because, he tells Landon, they’re the best in La Liga and so they’ve got to be the best in the game, too.

“They’re not, though,” Landon says.

“Not what?” Steve asks, but his eyes are wide and glued to the screen and so Landon doesn’t think he’s actually paying attention.

“The best in La Liga,” he says. Steve laughs; he does that a lot.

“Open a newspaper, L.D.,” Steve says. “They’ve got Cristiano Ronaldo; they’ve got Kaká. They’ve got—”

He doesn’t finish his sentence, focused too intently on the game, and so Landon says, “Let me guess, they’ve got Iker Casillas.”

“Oh! Ohh—!” Steve says, and he completely ignores the fact that they were having a conversation. He’s got this stupid smile on his face, his mouth hanging open as he moves his head in time with the game.

Landon rolls his eyes and goes back to playing; Steve scores.

“Told you I was good, L.D.,” he says. “I’m a  _futbolista_. That’s what they say in Europe.”

“You’re not—you’re not a  _futbolista_ ,” Landon says, and he’s frustrated, so frustrated and fed up with Steve always thinking he’s the best at everything. “You’re a basketball player. This is just a video game.”

Steve’s silent for a minute after that, and for a second Landon thinks that maybe he’s taken it too far, but then Steve laughs—really laughs, shows all his teeth and throws back his head—and says, “I know it’s just a  _game_ , Landon. Don’t be such a downer just because I'm winning.”

And then Landon just—he’s not proud of it, but he just loses it. Loses his cool. He stands up, throws his controller down onto the couch, and he’s done with Steve Nash.

“You are so full of shit,” Landon says, “that I can’t sit on that couch with you for another second.”

He heads to the door and as he does, Steve says, “Landon? Landon, wait, what did I do?” And the thing is, he sounds like he really doesn’t know, sounds genuinely upset.

Landon whirls around, says, “What did you do? What  _didn’t_  you do? You’re so full of yourself, it’s like you don’t even realize that you’re not on Planet Steve Nash. And reality check: you’re  _shit_  at soccer! Accept it! Move on!”

“Sorry for wanting to do something that you like when we hang,” Steve says, and he pulls a face and waves his hands and clearly, clearly isn’t sorry.

“No,” Landon says, pointing a finger. “No, you don’t get to turn this around on me. Can I dunk a basketball on you? No; you’re twice my size. Just because you can’t bicycle kick doesn’t mean you have to beat me at FIFA to redeem yourself.”

Steve starts, “Being a sore loser is a sign of—”

“ _No_ ,” Landon interrupts, and he’s really lost it, just can’t hold any of it in anymore. It’s not like him, not at all, but he’s been with Steve all day and it’s really starting to affect him negatively. His mother raised him differently, but. “Stop. Just stop.”

Landon threads his fingers through his hair and tugs. This is giving him a headache, really throwing him for a loop and stuff. If he was asked a month ago what Steve Nash was like, he’d have said,  _Seems like a great guy. He’s definitely a great athlete; I wouldn’t mind to meet him._  And now—now he can’t even get rid of him. Landon tugs on his hair again.

“That’s probably not good for the, you know,” Steve says, and he motions towards his forehead. “The hairline.”

Landon growls, thinks,  _Shut up_ , and he doesn’t know what happens, but one moment he’s yelling at Steve, confessing his hate for the guy, and the next he's launching himself at him, has him pushed up against a wall, one hand on Steve’s face and one knee shoved between Steve’s two as he kisses him.

Landon pulls Steve forward by the hips, rocks their bodies together, and it’s only now that they’re pressed against one another that Landon finally realizes just how tall Steve is, just how much he needs to look up in order to see him.

He shoves Steve’s shirt up his chest and then Steve scrambles to get it off, and the second it is, Landon starts kissing his chest. He half expects Steve to say something like,  _That a good height for you?_  He doesn’t, but Landon bites down hard right by Steve’s left collarbone anyways, as if he had. Steve jerks back in surprise when he does, and then he grinds his hips against Landon’s.

“Fuck, Landon,” he says. “ _L.D_.”

“Stop talking,” Landon says, because he’s making out with Steve Nash against a wall and he feels dirty for it, dirty and turned on and he can’t stop himself, and he doesn’t need Steve to remind him of any of that.

Steve laughs, although it’s not his usual loud laugh, and he takes off Landon’s shirt. And it’s so much better like that—skin to skin, chest to chest—that Landon looks up, kisses Steve with too much tongue and teeth and spit. It’s filthy and vulgar and Landon won’t—can’t—stop, just reaches between them to undo the button of Steve’s pants and push them as far down as he can without pulling away.

Steve lets his head fall back against the wall as he groans, but he doesn’t say anything and so Landon lets him get away with it. He shimmies out of his own jeans, and fuck, this is Steve Nash, but his hands are all over Landon’s chest and arms and he just—he can’t—

He licks the palm of his hand and then wraps his fingers around Steve’s cock. Steve’s hips buck almost right away.

He jacks Steve off, nice and slow, the entire time rocking his hips against Steve’s thigh. Landon doesn’t care if Steve finds that unappealing because Landon’s the one doing all the work, even if he’s not being all that gentle about it.

When Steve gets close, he says, “Landon, Landon, Landon,” over and over again, “Fuck,  _Landon_ ,” and Landon hates it.

“Shut up,” he says. “Shut up,  _shut up_.” He takes his hand and covers Steve’s mouth, only belatedly realizing that his hand is covered in spit and precome. He does, to be honest, feel a bit bad about that. But the second his hand is off Steve’s cock, Steve really starts grinding their hips together, rubbing himself against Landon, and that—fuck—feels so good that Landon can’t think, can barely stand, and his legs start to wobble and Steve has to hold him up, one arm around Landon’s waist, and that’s so embarrassing—humiliating—but then Steve’s biting down on Landon’s palm, licking off the sweat and precome on Landon’s palm as he comes, and Landon’s not far behind, coming so hard he sees stars.

They both collapse to the floor after that, shaky and sated, and they breathe. Landon notices that their breaths are almost in time.

“L.D.,” Steve starts. He’s smiling wide and looking at Landon, shaking his head like he can’t believe what just happened. Landon can’t believe it either.

“I should probably go,” Landon says, although he means that he should  _definitely_  go because he just jerked off Steve fucking Nash and he can’t ever look at himself in the mirror again, let alone look at Steve’s stupid face for another minute longer.

He shoves his legs through his jeans and yanks his shirt on over his head, buckling his belt when he only has one arm through his shirt sleeves. He’s a mess; he knows it’s true, isn’t going to dispute it or anything, just slips on his shoes that are by the door and makes a beeline for his car.

He makes it halfway down the driveway before Steve sticks his head out of the house and then moves to stand on the front step, his shirt still off and his pants unbuttoned around his waist. Landon can see a hickey already forming on his chest, angry and red, and it makes his stomach flop.

“Bye, Landon!” Steve yells, one hand in the air in a motionless wave. “This was fun!”

Landon ignores him, doesn’t say anything back, just climbs into his car, slams the door and starts the engine.

“Let’s do it again sometime!” Steve yells.

Landon peels out of the driveway and down the street. He makes it two blocks away before he has to pull over just to think, just to process the fact of what he did. He has to call somebody—Bocanegra, maybe, or Benny even though he’ll just laugh—anybody who can help him come to terms with having had his hand down Steve’s pants.

He had his  _hand_  down  _Steve’s pants_. Oh, man. Landon doesn’t—can’t even—he wasn’t even drunk, is the saddest part; can’t even claim that he was because he only had a beer, if that. He doesn’t know what he did to deserve this—some of Steve’s come dried between the skin of his fingers, the knowledge of what Steve looks like and what Steve sounds like when someone’s hands are on him—but he knows that somewhere along the road of life, he must have made some pretty poor life decisions that have all been building up to this moment, to this second, to this mental and emotional breakdown in a double-parked Honda in the middle of a Beverly Hills gated community.

He pats at his pockets, but his phone isn’t there. He looks in the glove box, the center console, the floor by the backseat; it’s not there.

He pictures his phone in his head, sitting on Steve’s coffee table.

“Damn it,” Landon says to himself.

He turns around in a quiet side street and heads back to Steve’s.

 


End file.
